


rock-'n'-roll ruby

by sepulchralsymphonies



Series: a man and his muse [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepulchralsymphonies/pseuds/sepulchralsymphonies
Summary: It's humbling, Keith thinks, when a man (my lover, my lover, my lover) pulls you onto the stage and pauses long enough to press his chapped lips against yours, and then resumes his action like he hasn't just tipped your world upside-down.
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: a man and his muse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581634
Comments: 12
Kudos: 76





	rock-'n'-roll ruby

**Author's Note:**

> keith and lance end up together in every version of every universe in existence. change my mind.  
> have some pining keith! i'll be back with more soon (hopefully), and i love youuuuuuuu.

Some things are inevitable. Some things are unavoidable. Keith learns some things the hard way, when he's fifteen. He can still taste the faint neon syrup of candy on his tongue and he lets it sit there, sweet and heady, turning him dizzy and distant from the world. It's like the punches don't find purchase on his skin because he's floating so high, and he doesn't even look back once at Brian Fisher and his twitching fingers from where he's peeking from the shadows behind the library's boundary wall. He steps over the candy wrapper and it crunches neatly under his shoe. The sound reminds him of splintered bones, and he clutches his elbow to his chest on the way back home.

.

Some things are inevitable. Some things, no matter how hard you try to throw them under a veil, to kick them under the bed, to shove them under your pillow— they find a way through, they find a way out. It is impossible to keep those things locked away, because you can't hide away within stone walls and padlocked doors what finds a way to slide through the chinks in your armour. You can't defeat an enemy you cannot see.

Shiro turns to Keith one afternoon, his foot tapping an insistent rhythm against the hardwood floor, and the rain smashing against the windowpanes cuts deep rivets down and across his face. "Keith," he begins, and his shoulders slump. "I— I kissed a boy."

Keith hums under his breath, trying not to let the shaking of his hands turn too apparent. He flips over to the next page, idly scanning through the headlines. Elvis sounds through the house, blaring through the radio in the kitchen and singing something about the moon and stars. "Was it that Waterston kid from two blocks over?"

Shiro looks like something is clawing its way up his throat. "Yes. Yes, it was."

Keith nods. His fingernails are beginning to leave little indents in the prime minister's face. He clears his throat once. He can hear their mother humming along as she clatters around the stove, searching for the oven mitts that she always stows away in the top left cabinet and promptly forgets. "Alright."

"Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Am I going to hell?" Shiro finally asks, and his voice breaks halfway.

Keith turns to him. "Don't." The rivets down his cheeks aren't a reflection, and tiny little patches turn damp and darken as Shiro’s tears continue to fall to the front of his neatly ironed, starch dried shirt. It's a little disorienting to see him, the poster boy for achievements and politeness and catholic perfection so broken, so terrified. "Don't say that, like this is any better."

"I’m sorry," Shiro says, after what seems like an eternity. He scrubs the back of his hand across his cheeks, the movement almost furious, self-critical. "I shouldn't— I shouldn't be saying this to you. You're just a kid."

"I’m your brother," Keith points out. The inside of his mouth feels like it's been scraped with one of the plates of sandpaper that's always lying around the garage. He swallows roughly. "Besides, you can't— you couldn't help it. Nothing's wrong with you."

"Yeah?" Shiro’s laugh is dry and harsh, like someone reached into his chest and scooped out all his confidence and self assurance before flinging it into the sewers. "Tell that to ma."

"Some things," Keith starts, and looks out the window. The drains in front of the house are overflowing again, and little bits of garbage and half decomposed refuse swirl to the surface in a churning, revolting mixture. Absently, he wonders how long it would take before their mother noticed and sent them out to clear it. He says,"Some things, you're meant to keep to yourself."

.

Some things are unavoidable. It was only a while before Keith— loud mouthed, hot headed, arrogant, terrified Keith snapped at his mother. There was only so much he could take after Shiro was gone. He didn't understand how he could pretend like he wasn't one of the unnatural people his mother kept going on and on about over the dinner table, stabbing her fork into her mashed potatoes roughly and ending every little discourse with a _but the lord's watching, Keith, he's always watching, and people like them? They'll find their damn selves on hell's doors long before their fire burns out._

New York City is nothing like Keith would've ever imagined. It's as loud as it is vibrant, as bold and boisterous as it is confusing. Its residents are people who trail shrouds of paradoxes, little crowns of mystery and intrigue tilted upon their furrowed brows. Everything is harsh and bright, the colours hurt his eyes, and it is such a welcome contrast from the bleak greys and burnt ochres of Texas that Keith falls into the city's embrace with open arms.

Shiro kicks open the door to an apartment that's squeezed in between two similarly squat stone buildings, but when the doors fly open, Keith sags into Adam’s arms as soon as the man in question walks into the room. Adam merely holds him tight, impossibly tight, and lays his cheek on top of his head while Keith fights away the last of the tremors that rack through his body. Adam cups his face between his hands— they're rough, calloused, smelling strongly of lemongrass— and smiles. "Don't let this chance go to waste, alright?"

And Keith just nods, head already beginning to spin from the journey. His mother's screams reverberate through his head, brandishing her umbrella at him with a tear splotched face while he walked away, dragging his suitcase behind him. ( _I never should've taken in your disgusting hide_.) "I won't."

.

It's customary, at this point— these late nights spent over at his brother's place, holding a gently puffing cigarette between his fingers while gazing out at the city that never sleeps through the screen door of the balcony. The cat from the neighbours' place occasionally slinks in, winding its lithe body around the base of his chair as it settled in for a long, lazy nap. Conversation never breaks off, issues are never dwelt upon, not when far greater threats loom over their heads like the blade of a guillotine, waiting to drop.

(How often had he seen Shiro exchange somewhat frantic glances with Adam over the dining table, the morning's newspaper splayed open over his knee and the headline blaring of the deaths of men just like them? How often had he looked over his own shoulder as he passed through a lively, bustling neighbourhood and let his gaze linger for too long on broad shoulders and warm eyes and gleaming teeth? How often had they looked at each other and wondered if they had a place for themselves in this wide, wide world?)

It is here, staying over after another one of these late nights that Keith first hears of McClain through word-of-mouth.

He's sitting up, swinging his legs over the couch that always smells of mothballs, when his brother walks in through the door with the newspaper clutched between his hands. "You're coming with us tonight, aren't you, Adam?"

Adam twists around from the stove to shoot him an apologetic smile. "I have to visit Jamie," he explains, scraping the eggs off the smoking pan evenly into three plates. "Give McClain a good kick in the balls for me."

Shiro snorts, nodding absently when Keith stumbles sleepily to join him at the table. "No, I’ll tell him you sent hugs and kisses," he says, eyes scanning rapidly across the front page. "I’m sure he'd appreciate it."

"Who's McClain?" Keith yawns, ducking his head obediently under Adam’s insistent ruffle. He mumbles his thanks at the steaming mug of coffee, the scalding heat against his fingers familiar enough to be comfortable.

"He's one of my strays," Adam answers. "Breath of fresh air, that kid."

"He sings at the bar across the street from the employment exchange," Shiro supplies, rubbing at his false arm. "Adam promised him he'd be at his gig tonight, but he's backing out now."

"I _told_ you, I’ve got to meet Jamie," Adam groans, dropping into the chair opposite Keith with a huff. "We have to figure out this article together, and heaven knows she's been as useful as a lump of cinders this whole time."

"Don't fret, I’ll go down to see him with Keith," Shiro says with a shrug, glancing briefly at Keith before reaching for his fork. "You're free tonight, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately," Keith affirms. The cat has reappeared on the balcony and has tilted its head, blinking imperatively at him. The chair scrapes against the ground as he pushes to his feet, padding barefooted over to slide the bolt free. "Being unemployed does that to you, Shiro."

Shiro merely laughs as the cat struts inside with a graceful gait. "I’ll see you at six, then."

The Defender does not graze Keith’s expectations, to say the least. Based off the exuberant praises that had spilled from Shiro’s lips the entire way, he'd expected it to be grandiose, all encompassing, a little over the top, really. It's a fairly small building, standing lone and confident with its smooth grey exterior and panelled double doors. The hulking men at the gates nod once at Shiro, gaze lingering on his side before pushing the doors open with a dull crunch. The interior is fairly nondescript, simple mahogany woodwork and looming chandeliers dangling from the low ceiling. They pick their way through the sparsely littered crowd, a few men nursing early glasses of whiskey, and slide into the stools along the bar.

Shiro coughs politely because some habits die hard, and the bartender swivels around. Their eyebrows shoot to their hairline, and they lean forward to rest their bony elbows on the countertop. " _Look_ what the cat dragged in," they chuckle, slanting their lips. "Who's the pretty boy?"

"Adam couldn't make it today, he sends his apologies. This is Keith," Shiro introduces, rolling out his shoulders. Keith doesn't fail to notice how he absently rubs at his elbow where he's rolled up his sleeve. The man seated next to him shoots a brief glance at the metal peeking out from under the spun cotton, and walks away with a sneer.

The bartender's face breaks out into a smile, although the edges of their mouth harden with the narrowing of their eyes at the back of the man, who's now blended into the crowd. "Ah, the infamous baby brother," they crow with delight, sticking out a hand. "I’m Katie, but you can call me Pidge."

Keith reaches out to shake their hand. Unsurprisingly, they've a very firm grip. "It's nice to meet you, Pidge," he says earnestly. Behind them, the song changes into a slower one that sounds vaguely familiar. Keith doesn't dwell on it.

"Lance is backstage with Hunk," Pidge says, grabbing the stem of a wine glass with such delicate agility that Keith feels a stab of misplaced jealousy. "Can I fix you two up with anything, or do you want to meet them first?"

"I'd do that, thanks," Shiro answers, rising to his feet. He claps a hand onto Keith’s shoulder. "He's going to be crowded after the show, and I’m not looking forward to waiting just to deliver Adam’s heartfelt message."

"Hey," Pidge calls, right before they melt into the crowd. Their voice has softened considerably, and there's a genuine smile tugging at their lips. "How is he?"

Shiro laughs, bright and pleasant. "Beautiful, as always."

Keith’s never had an opportunity to be backstage, because he's been raised a boy who doesn't question and doesn't press and merely listens and goes along with what he's supposed to be doing. The palms of his hands are still rough from all those years of grating saws through wood and rolling screws between his fingers and the scalding smacks of splints of wood every time he opened his mouth to sing along to anything but hymns that sang praises in advent, but now it's as if they're gone, but they've left behind harsh furrows dug into the flesh. Some things, he muses, you can't run from.

Shiro raps thrice on the door with a shoddily executed and peeling paint job. He supposes there was a plaque to be hung in the middle, but it's tilted a long time ago and now, the space behind it hangs empty. It swings open, and the man in the doorway cheers happily. "Shirogane! It's been a while!"

Shiro laughs good-naturedly, leaning forward to return the embrace one handed. "I’ve been busy, Matt. But it is nice to see you."

"Come in, come in before you bump into anyone," the man called Matt prompts, shifting to the side to let them step inside. He runs a hand through his ruffled hair, glancing outside with apprehensive eyes. "There's all sorts of creeps running around, you can never tell when—"

"Finally dropped off Waterston, did ya, Shirogane?" a man calls out loudly. He's seated atop a loudspeaker, thighs splayed wide and stance relaxed. One of his hands rests on top of a guitar. _Electric_ , Keith notes, so _he's_ the asshole who considers himself better than the others doing this gig. "Funny, didn't peg you to be that sort of guy."

Shiro’s face hardens. "Adam’s busy tonight, this is my brother," he says shortly. His voice is clipped.

The man narrows his eyes at him. "You don't look like you're from here," he accuses, beady irises raking harshly down Keith’s prone form. "What's your name, kid?"

Keith bristles, feeling the first stabs of annoyance spiking through his limbs. His spine straightens. "what is that supposed to mean?"

The man snorts, the loud and derisive noise ripping straight from his barrel chested torso. A sweat soaked lock of hair, bright as the sun at midday, flops ungracefully onto his glistening forehead. "With a face like _that_?" he asks, tapping a pair of drumsticks loosely against his thigh. "Forgive me for being a little cautious."

"I’m from Texas," Keith snaps just as Shiro opens his mouth to assuage the rapidly heating situation. His fingers twitch at his sides, blunt and edged. "It's in America, unless you haven't heard of it?"

"Easy there," Shiro says, eyes darting back and forth from Keith to the door. It's a few yards at least, and if the man rushes him, Keith would have to wrestle him to the side just to make it out. "We don't want any trouble."

"Oh, I’ve heard of it, alright," the man chuckles, and his eyes darken maliciously. "So, you ran and hid here, while your family was blowin' up our harbours, eh?"

"I’m _Korean_ , you motherfucker—" Keith snarls roughly.

"That's enough," a voice cuts in sharply.

Heads swivel sharply to the door, and Keith takes in a man leaning casually against the frame. His shoulders are taut, and he's backlit by the glare from the lights. "You should really leave the talking to me, you know," he drawls in a heavily accented tone. His foot keeps tapping sharply, the magpie black shine of his shoes swerving back and forth.

"Fuck off, McClain," the guitarist sneers, lip curling backwards to expose his teeth. "Stop acting like _you're_ any better."

The man sighs, a long drawn sound that's dripping heavy with greasy mockery. "Don't kid yourself thinking I enjoy your racist bullshit, Lewis. I’m here because Cindy was looking for you," he supplies, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Told me she wants to look over some adjustments for the reverb."

Lewis squints at the intruder for a long minute before rising to his feet. He shoves his way past him, pausing long enough to hiss a loud, "you better watch your ass out there, McClain," before he stalks out.

The stranger laughs. "Forgot your muzzle at home, did you, Lewis?"

The door slams behind him, and he's gone.

"Hey, Shiro," the man greets, stepping forward and smiling warmly. His gaze flicks to Keith. "That your brother?"

Shiro visibly relaxes, reaching out to shake his hand. "Yeah, that's Keith."

In the light, Keith can make out that the newcomer is tall, embellished with the sort of willowy and graceful confidence that comes with an open-handed acceptance of your own beauty. He's lithe yet sharp, striking brown eyes appraising him coolly from his lazy perch against the blistering doorframe. His lips stretch in a smile that swirls in a mix of amusement and cold assessment, and he shifts his weight to one foot when he opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't mind him," he says in Keith’s direction with a loose shrug. "Most guys working here lumber around with half a brain."

"Alright," Keith replies.

"But that was still rather rude," he continues with a frown. "What he said."

Keith nods. "Yes."

" _So_ ," the man says. "You're from Texas."

"Yes."

The man— McClain— tips his head to one side curiously. A bunch of kids backstage fiddle with a flashlight as they rattle a box frantically, and a sudden stray beam of light bursts into existence along his neck. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"

"Would you be willing to accept the word of a stranger?" Keith questions. McClain's face breaks out into a grin as he holds out a hand. His skin _glows_ , like burnished copper coins.

"As long as they're yours, I’ll take it," the newcomer says cheerily. "I’m Alejandro. I go by Lance, here."

"Keith," he replies, dazed and somewhat starstruck. (McClain has a really nice smile.)

"I would apologise, but I refuse to shift the responsibility of some asshole's behaviour onto my own self," Lance hums, lifting the shoulders of his pristine white shirt loosely. His fingers are firm.

"You shouldn't have to," Keith assures him with a wry grin, reaching out to grip his hand. "Thanks for letting us back here, though."

"Pleasure's all mine," Alejandro smiles, all glowing bronze skin and blinding white teeth and impossibly long legs. He pulls his hand free after a quick tightening of his fingers, but he tilts his head to the side as he looks over Keith. "You should stay, I’ll be singing next."

"Oh no, sorry, I have to go," Keith explains with an apologetic grimace. "There's this interview sort of thing I’ve got at eight, so I can't stay any longer than an hour."

"I’m certain Shiro can handle a few more white hairs on your behalf," Alejandro insists, and while Shiro bursts into surprised laughter with an indignant _hey, now!_ , he reaches out with an incredibly careful gaze to fix the collar of Keith’s shirt. The touch is brief, instantaneous, barely a brush of calloused fingertips against his collarbone, but Keith feels like there's a match lit right in the hollow of his throat. Alejandro smiles again, and Keith feels unmoored, unmanned, _lost_. "Besides, I’ve got just the song for you."

"For me?" Keith repeats, confused. A few attendants backstage are yelling at each other, it seems someone accidentally knocked over a loudspeaker. Alejandro's eyes flicker to the side to chuckle faintly, before swerving back to him.

"Yes," he confirms, and this time, his touch lingers in Keith’s hair even when his hand drops at his side. He takes a step back, and leans his neck to the side. "Keep your eyes and ears peeled," he advises, and then disappears into the dark.

.

("I almost missed it, you know," Keith gasps out, hours later, the cool ceramic of the sink digging into the small of his back. His fingers scrabble for purchase, slipping and sliding as he holds himself up on wobbling knees. "Your— your song."

Lance doesn't even raise his head. "Too bad, then," he murmurs right into the skin at Keith’s neck before closing his teeth around his pulse point. A half pained, garbled noise fills the stale air right before a warm hand closes over Keith’s mouth, and Lance returns his attention to his throat. "I would not have repeated myself."

Keith laughs, a steadily rising sound broken halfway as it tapers off into a pleased groan. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" The back of his head cracks against the mirror as Lance hefts one of his knees up over his own waist. "You would have— would have sang it over and over until I looked up and took some goddamn notice of you."

Lance finally pulls back. There's a pleased quirk to his lips, dark and wine stained and decisive and so, so glorious under the scratchy halo of the lone bulb over their heads. "You talk too much," he smiles once as he leans back in, and Keith finds he cannot form coherent words any longer.)

.

Lance’s fingers are incredible, Keith learns.

It's not merely about how convenient they are, how unbelievably experienced and skilled, how they crook delicately and viciously at all the right angles and slide smoother than silk across his flushed skin, how they clamp down over his mouth when he's being too loud, how they dig into his jaw as they drag his gaze upwards, how they scrape against his flesh and leave behind long deep trenches, ones that sing of victory and wine and drunken celebrations.

His fingers are beautiful, long and elegantly shaped digits carved straight from living and breathing sunburnt stones, dragged from the sea and stitched into human flesh. His knuckles bend so gracefully over Keith’s knee, over the neck of the mic, over the rim of his glass of whiskey. The skin stretches and pulls taut as sails on a ship when he curls them into fists, gripping the front of Keith’s shirt as he slams them into the wall of his dingy dressing room, grabbing the frayed straps of his bag when he walks up to join Keith at the door.

Keith presses a kiss to the tip of his index finger. Lance lifts his head from the pillow with an amused smile. "What's got into you?" He chuckles, right as Keith mouths at the callouses littered across his palms. They're rough, he discerns, but they're warm.

"Nothing," Keith replies, and for a second, he's afraid his voice betrays the reverence he works so hard to hide from view. He swallows, not daring to look up as he weaves his fingers through Lance’s. "Nothing at all, that's what."

"Keith," Lance calls from behind him, and it's so gentle that it aches when it collides with something deep within him.

"Alejandro," Keith says.

"Look at me," he pleads, impossibly soft, his voice velvety and careful. The afternoon sun shines in a hot little patch across his lap, and he can hear the muffled sounds of the city living and breathing through the window. The room is too quiet, too muted. "Baby, look at me."

Keith turns.

.

It was only a matter of time, Keith thinks belatedly as he watches the lights start to flicker on the stage. It was only a matter of time before he hurtled headfirst into the crash, the train wreck, the goddamned landslide that this entire ordeal so proudly called itself. You can't sit on the sidelines and watch the collision without getting dust in your mouth and debris in your eyes. You can't lay a track of gasoline and hold the lighter in your hands and not have the flames lick and leap at your own flesh.

Some things are inevitable. Some things are unavoidable. The universe works on the inevitability and unavoidability of those some things.

There's the bang and clash of cymbals, a harsh and detached metallic sound that sets Keith’s teeth on edge and makes the schoolgirls in the front of the stage with their fluttering hands and their neatly pleated skirts scream until their throats turn sore and aching. The opening strains of the guitar seem to resonate in the space of the room, not that it's a lot to begin with, but it seems bigger today, somehow. More magnified, significant.

Keith watches with pursed lips as the asshat who'd assumed he was Japanese walks onto the stage with the self-assured and severely misplaced confidence of a man who's been praised to high heavens for his talent and is resting the weight of his entire life on it. The pale ochre of his guitar stands stark and bland against the obnoxious red of his shirt, and he keeps his eyes trained furiously on the instrument held between his fingers as he shifts the weight of it from one sturdy thigh to another.

The screams and hollers keep rising as the lights shift to accommodate the man behind the drums— Rolo, Keith thinks he's called. He hasn't really talked to him, not unless that one time he walked into Lance’s room to borrow aftershave and saw Keith with his face pressed against the dusty wood of the dresser, shirt rucked up to his chest and pants flung over the rickety mirror, with Lance standing behind him, straining and sweat-slicked and a vicious shade of red. He'd offered a stoic nod, tipping his head briefly at Keith before shutting the door soundly behind him. He's a good man, he plays his instrument well, and he can keep a secret. That's all Keith really cares about.

Keith _feels_ , more than sees or hears Lance walk up to take his place. It's staggering, really, how much attention that strange young man from the narrow winding streets and honey sweet by-lanes of Cuba can command. An almost comical hush falls over the room, and Keith isn't the only one holding in his breath, waiting and watching and feeling the shift in the stale air as Lance McClain saunters up to the mic stand with all the long-legged, loping grace of a predator who's stalking into the territory of potential prey. It's disorienting, and distracting, and very _very_ heated, but then Lance starts to sing and Keith knows he's always been a goner for this bronzed, brash, beautiful man anyway.

Lance sings, and it's like the words thrum and tremble and vibrate deep within Keith’s own chest. He slinks and slides and struts, he smiles and smirks and snarls, and it is impossible to take your eyes off of him. He's confident and composed, because nothing makes the McClain boy stronger than dropping all his coins in one satchel, risking all he's got on one venture. He's a simple minded man, he either does it all or he does nothing. There's no halves, no quarters, no halfways or in-betweens. It's either this side, or that. It's either drowning, or breathing.

" _He looked at me and then he looked at the clock, he said, wait a minute daddy_ —"

Lance’s fingers curl around the mic, and he brings the stand with him when he leans back in a pose that makes the fabric of his pants stretch obscenely around his thighs. He smiles again, that same dangerous quirk to his lips that he'd flashes to Keith all those months ago, and he feels his own face relax into a semblance of a smile. It doesn't feel unnatural anymore.

" _Now don't get all sour, all I want to do is rock a little bit more_ ," Lance croons, and Keith realises with a jolt of hot energy down his back that those ocean blue eyes are searing right into him. He blinks back, surprised and Lance’s mouth curls.

" _'cause he's my rock-'n'-roll Ruby_ ," he continues, and it's like he isn't singing anymore, because they're back in a bed with scratchy sheets and half-drawn curtains and patterned slivers of sunlight thrown over and around the mossy green carpet and Lance is pressing his lips against the bruise blooming over his ribs and the world is holding its breath. He isn't singing anymore, because he's smiling, that _fucker_ , and he's saying the words right to him, right to Keith, when he says, " _and when Ruby starts a-rockin', boy, it satisfies my soul_.”

It's humbling, Keith thinks, to flush crimson in a room full of strangers and have every head turn to you when a man ( _your_ lover, your _lover_ , _your lover_ ) begins to sing to you with every bit of passion in his debauchery soaked voice. It's humbling, Keith thinks, when the man ( _your_ lover, your _lover_ , _your lover_ ) holds out a hand to you and beckons you forward as he continues to sing what's beginning to feel less of a song and more of a tribute. It's humbling, Keith thinks, when the man ( _my_ lover, my _lover_ , _my lover_ ) pulls you onto the stage and pauses long enough to press his chapped lips against yours and then resumes his action like he hasn't just tipped your world upside-down.

Alejandro sings like a siren, Keith decides then and there as he reaches up on his tiptoes to chase after a kiss that feels more like a reward, and Keith will follow him through fire and water like a sinner led back to his womb, by the bells that toll calling him back to church.


End file.
